


happy endings

by vavafroome (spaceboy_niko)



Series: off season [4]
Category: Cycling RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hand Jobs, M/M, extremely unprofessional working relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27511528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceboy_niko/pseuds/vavafroome
Summary: if primož hadn't been as good a rider as he is, maybe he'd settle for being a soigneur.
Relationships: George Bennett/Primož Roglič
Series: off season [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1999129
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	happy endings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magliarosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magliarosa/gifts).



> ok i had a moment mid-yoga class where i really wanted to write some good swannie/rider dynamics but i apparently can know nothing about tjv's staff so fuckit. alternate universe time baby!! obviously unrelated to my other rogla/george fic but in the same series because it's a nice place for oneshots
> 
> also i'm the ONLY person on the rogla/george train which is totally fine. this fic is for me, it is my ship, except it's more like a kayak that i can't paddle in a straight line.
> 
> for magliarosa for being tolerant of my bullshit ily

A soigneur’s day starts early, goes hard, and finishes late - Primož learned this the hard way, but it’s little more than a fact of life now. It hurts a little that he has to settle for riding his bike around the roads at home instead of riding in the peloton, sure, but if this is how he gets to be part of a World Tour team, then it’s a fairly decent substitute.

Besides, he quite likes the work. He’d never really known the amount of work it took to get a team ready for even a one-day race, but he likes to get stuck into it. Granted, he doesn’t enjoy doing laundry late at night, elbow-deep in wet Lycra and patching up dry kit from the previous day’s crashes while he waits for the washing machine to finish its maddening drone. He’ll take it, though, because it pays the bills, and it’s marginally better than washing the team cars.

He’s garnered quite the reputation for being meticulous - every musette he packs is perfectly knotted, every number pinned on straight, every rice cake wrapped tightly with sharp-creased corners. He _belongs_ on a World Tour team, even if it’s not in the way he’d originally wanted to be.

He works during the Tour de France in his first year with Jumbo-Visma, and does a grand tour every year after that. He quite likes getting to explore the little pockets of Europe that he wouldn’t have otherwise visited, and he likes getting to know the riders over the month or so he’s at their beck and call. He learns what they like, and what they don’t, and who takes how many sugars in their coffees in the morning. He learns what drinks they should have on hand to celebrate a stage win, what snacks he can sneak into musettes to lighten up a dreary stage, and who needs a little extra time on their lower back or shoulders in their rub-down.

Three weeks of racing is tough, though, and Primož very quickly becomes a stand-in therapist, sworn to secrecy on anything he hears from the massage table. Whenever someone’s having a particularly shit ride, he always tries to make their next day a little better - a sweet pastry in their pockets, or their favourite beer after a stage.

After a couple of years, he starts to notice that he ends up on the more personal duties more often, picking up riders from hotels and airports, running errands, and finding himself saddled with the all-important massages. He seems to be a particular favourite of Bennett’s, who chatters away to him like they’ve been best friends for years.

“Primož is _my_ swannie,” he hears Bennett say from time to time, and while he knows that’s not entirely true - he does still have Bennett’s other teammates to handle - it makes him feel appreciated.

The last time trial of that year’s Vuelta is hard on Bennett - he’s never been a particularly strong time trialist, and he always comes off the bike exhausted and strained and unbelievably tense, so Primož makes sure he saves him for last. It’s evenings like those, where Primož has to spend what feels like hours coaxing the tightness out of him, that he really is Bennett’s soigneur.

Primož goes through the motions as he always does - drizzles massage oil into his palm, rubs it into his hands to warm it up, and asks Bennett where he’d like to start.

“Fuckin’- anywhere, I don’t care,” Bennett sighs, trying to find a comfortable angle for his neck, and Primož starts on his left ankle.

“You rode well today, Georgie,” Primož says, trying to make light conversation.

George huffs. “No I didn’t, Primož. I came thirty-seventh. You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“It’s my job, yeah?” Primož continues to move his way up towards Bennett’s knee, listening for any sounds of discomfort as he works into the muscle of his upper calf. “And you rode well for you. You are, ah, not a time trial rider.”

“No shit. I was way happier when the climb started and I could get on the road bike again.” George sighs as Primož finds a particularly sore spot in his thigh. “I just want this Vuelta to be done so I can go home, fuck.”

Primož doesn’t respond, focusing intently on George’s thigh. He’s conflicted by the end of the season, as he always is. On the one hand, he’s looking forward to having a bit of a break and actually sleeping in his own bed and getting more than five hours’ sleep. On the other, though, he is going to miss the company - the idle morning conversations as he fills bidons and packs musettes, the radio patter during the race, the dinner table talk and, of course, the confidences that are only shared between a rider and his soigneur.

“I’ll miss you, y’know,” Bennett says, and Primož blinks. “Seriously, I will. You’re a good bloke to have around, Primož.”

“You’ll also miss the rest of the team.”

“But I’ll miss you the most.” Bennett props himself up on his elbows and twists around to smile at Primož. “I’m gonna be so bloody sore at the first training camp, you wait.”

“I am...not looking forward to it.” Primož begins to knead into George’s tight gluteal muscle, and he relaxes back down onto the table with a contented noise. “You complain so much when you’re sore.”

“Fuck off.” Bennett’s a little muffled, and the conversation dies away into his usual massage noises until Grischa comes in to check up on him. Primož doesn’t really listen in, just keeps working away until he can’t feel any more tension under the skin and moves to the right leg.

Grischa is in a chatty mood, leaving only as Primož is finishing up with Bennett’s right hip and moving onto his shoulder muscles.

“I’m going to do your back now,” he says, and Bennett makes a noise of acknowledgement, sitting up to swing his legs over the edge of the table. “Then you can, I don’t know, fall asleep there while I finish your legs.”

“You can shove me off the table if that happens.”

There are a few good cracks from George’s back tonight, oddly satisfying as the pressure is released from between his vertebrae, and he straightens back up at Primož’s instruction, stripping down and lying back onto the table again. Primož averts his eyes as Bennett covers himself with the sheet.

“Have I ever told you how good you are at this?” Bennett asks as Primož warms up another palmful of oil. “There’s a reason I try and keep you all to myself.”

“What?”

“You didn’t notice?” George sounds incredulous. “I kept asking Grischa if you could be my personal swannie, but the other guys like you too much, so I just get you to do as much as they’ll let me.”

The idea of being his personal soigneur doesn’t sound too bad, actually - George is a very easy-going guy, and Primož gets along well with him. He’d like to travel around with Bennett, hopping between continents and hemispheres and helping him do what he does best.

“I guess you can’t steal me away from them.”

“But what if I want to?” George challenges. “I like having you around.”

Primož stops, hands on Bennett’s right quad. “Really?”

“Yeah.” George doesn’t take his eyes from the ceiling. “I- you know what, I’m going to do something really fucking stupid and then we can forget I ever did it, and you don’t have to be my soigneur if you don’t want to.”

“I-” Primož tries to start, but George sits up and leans forward, pressing his tight-lipped mouth to Primož’s.

It’s not a very good kiss, by all means - George is tense all through his mouth and doesn’t soften into it, doesn’t relax in the way that Primož finds himself wishing he would. He does want to kiss George, much to his own surprise, he just wants it to be better.

George sits back as they pull apart, like he’s trying to get some distance between them, but Primož shakes his head. “I think we should try that again.”

This time, it’s Primož who initiates, and George finally softens, bringing a hand up to cup Primož’s cheek. He lets George open up, keeping it soft and sweet until George pushes further, and then they’re a clash of tongues and teeth as they both become more confident. Primož can feel his pulse shifting to concentrate in his groin, feels lightheaded as he forgets about breathing in favour of kissing George until he absolutely has to break the kiss.

“What about Grischa? We’re a soigneur and a rider, is this fucked?” Primož pants, trying to catch his breath.

George grins. “It’s kind of why Grischa won’t let you be mine. Says we’ll get up to mischief.”

“This is called mischief then, yeah?”

“That’s one word for it,” George chuckles, and kisses Primož again hard, pulling himself closer and letting a leg dangle off the table between Primož’s legs. The sheet hiding the last of him is hanging on for dear life, and Primož reaches down and pulls it aside.

George is mostly hard, uncut, with the shiny head of his cock peeking out from his foreskin. He always looks a bit dishevelled, but now he looks distinctly a mess, cheeks flushed pink and cock twitching slightly as Primož takes him in.

Primož wraps one of his slick hands around George’s cock, and George half-sighs, half-moans at the touch. The slide is smooth, and Primož isn’t entirely sure what to do until George grits out “Tighter, fuck”, so he does his job and does what he is told, tightening his grip and trying to follow the desperate little movements of George’s hips.

George’s thigh is at about the right height for Primož to grind his own hips into, doing his best to match the rhythm he’s setting for them both, taking the edge off his own hard-on. He’s not worried about himself right now - George can make it up to him another time.

George is sweat-slicked, hard, pulsing under Primož’s fingertips, panting and swearing a blue streak. He reaches for Primož, but Primož gently pushes his hand away.

“Not yet,” he says in a low voice. “I’m here to take care of you, George.”

“Fuck, Primož, I can’t, I’m gonna-” George whimpers, and comes in a hot and sticky spurt over Primož’s fist.

Primož wipes George and his hand down with the sheet, and George makes a face.

“It’s okay, I have to wash it anyway,” Primož explains, bundling it up and adding it to the wash pile.

When he comes out of the bathroom after washing his hands, George has moved to his bed and pulled on a shirt and boxers. “Stay?” he asks.

Primož has to shake his head. “I have to do all your fucking laundry.”

George laughs guiltily. “Will you come back later, then?” he presses.

Primož does come back once he’s out of the tangle of washing, drying, sorting and folding time trial kits and the thankfully-not-ruined sheet. George is still awake enough to acknowledge him coming in, but not coherent enough to do much more than squish over in bed to make room for him. He lets Primož be little spoon, warm against his back, and reaches over to wrap thin fingers around Primož’s cock. His hand is gentle, yet firm, moving in sleepy yet consistent strokes until Primož comes with a sigh of his name. As he drifts off, he knows the mess is going to be just awful to wake up to.

When Primož raises the possibility of being George’s personal soigneur the next day, Grischa sighs in exasperation.

“Are you serious? First George, now you, the two of you will be nothing but trouble!”

 _First mischief, now trouble,_ Primož thinks with amusement. That’ll be something to tell George tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> this is more character-developing dialogue than i think i've ever written and it's frankly exhausted me


End file.
